


Wildflowers

by sixpetalpoppy



Series: Daliances [2]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixpetalpoppy/pseuds/sixpetalpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a secret glade off the gardens of Chateau Saint-Germain-en-Laye Queen Anne finds comfort in Aramis. Oneshot. Part of the Daliances series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildflowers

**Wildflowers**

Disclaimer: Clearly, I am neither Dumas nor the Almighty BBC, thus I own nothing in relation to the Musketeers.

It was often said (though only through hushed whispers behind hands and closed doors) that the secrets of the Palace’s gardens were many and that one could never know what was around the corner of the well-manicured hedging. Some, in most cases the staff of the large chateau, took the saying as a metaphor: for one rarely could predict the next hurdle thrown at the personnel; noble men and women who visited agreed, though not in in the same context, for they believed that anything was possible in the lavish gardens that were fabled for their spectacle.

The gardens were formal, and the layout mirrored the Chateau Saint-Germain-en-Laye that they lay before. Yet though the garden was (on first glance) regimentally laid out, that didn’t stop there from being secret passages and hidden pathways to glades unknown to all but a few – especially around the outskirts. Those few in the know, quite naturally, included Queen Anne.

The first time Aramis met the Queen, out of the official context, it was in one of these secret glades. Her invitation was an obscure one, she had flippantly mentioned (with a quick and pointed look through her lashes) that, wasn’t the pathway south of the fountain the perfect place for a quiet walk but that she was, quite understandably, ever afraid that something (or someone, given the rebellious times) would catch her unawares. Despite this it really was a glorious day and wouldn’t it be a fine idea to take a walk there later, alone (cue pointed look), for the French women of court frustrated her so.

Her confidant Marie had laughed then, knowing that her Spanish frustrations with the ways of the French still tormented her. The moment had passed so fleetingly that Aramis thought he’d imagined it as he made his way through the gardens, past the fountain and south towards the path and (unknown to him) an overgrown glade filled with wildflowers and an awaiting Queen.   

That summer Anne spent many an afternoon hidden from the frowns of Cardinal Richelieu and the hot-and-cold affections of her husband. She found relief in the reprieve that Aramis provided and he found another heart to fall blindly for, damn the consequences. It was lucky, he would muse later, that he was such a curious sort and had followed her to her secret glade; she would, naturally, laugh and dismiss his ‘curious’ virtue as opportunistic; an allegation that (given his reputation) he really had no defence against. 

Initially Anne opposed giving her heart to the Musketeer who looked at her with such rash adoration; she’d already fallen from grace within the French court for her romancing of the Duke of Buckingham. The Duke had been a heady fool in love, idiotic in his passion and blatant in his intentions. She hadn’t cared for his affections by the time it had come to head, there was no thrill after the carnal conquest and she’d grown bored and apathetic. Aramis wasn’t needy though; he didn’t pester her for stolen glances, didn’t pull her away to kiss her without her permission and he certainly never felt inclined to profess his love in front of her husband and his chief minister.

On an evening in early August Anne lay in the grass waiting for Aramis, their meetings had become so frequent there now that she rarely needed to actively invite him to the glade; usually it was the first place he’d search for her. Her dress that fanned around her was lighter than usual, a boon of the oppressive heat they were experiencing, and the white was already tinging a greenish brown in places from her happy lolling in the pasture.

It was late in the day when he finally emerged through the gap in the hedge, one they often speculated would soon get patched by some overzealous gardener, and saw her lying there. She could have been asleep if it weren’t for the book she held aloft, reading the words with fervour. He couldn’t interrupt such a rare moment, for the elation on her face was one he’d seen so infrequently of late. His entrance had disturbed the shrubbery though and, despite his intentions, the Queen immediately noticed his arrival and beckoned him to her side.

“Did you think you could catch me unawares, Aramis?” she asked him with a humour in the lilt of her voice, her mirth was still exotic to his ears despite their month long courtship.  

“Never, my lady; but I hoped to watch you at peace for a while,” he replied, settling himself on the flattened grass next to her and removing his well-worn boots, a contrast to her rarely sullied finery.

He lay out on his back after shedding his coat and sword (though he kept it close to hand lest trouble befell them), the sky was still quite blue and clear of clouds, an orange tinge to the horizon was the only mark of the coming evening, despite the hour. “Marie told me you have been hiding, your majesty,” he told her, a clear statement rather than a question; Aramis had already made his disapproval of her removing herself from Court clear and her confidant Marie often voiced a similar concern to him.

She huffed somewhat petulantly and it was in that moment he was reminded that, really, she was still just a girl. Her childhood robbed from her by her early marriage she often behaved childlike in moments of chastisement. She sat up and offered him a glare, “really, Aramis, the pair of you conspire like old Nuns.”

He rolled his eyes, a move he wouldn’t have dared a mere week before, and sat up to join her, pushing the hand not propping him up into her loose dark hair so he could pull her face closer and with his forehead against hers he asked, “do we conspire against you or do we love you enough to try and spare you a reputation?”

“A reputation?” she asked, before pressing her lips against his firmly; she kissed him with humour, passionate though it was, she felt spurned by his ‘concern’ to inspire a contradiction in his behaviour. It wasn’t long before he pushed her back into the thoroughly flattened grass and rolled onto her, briefly admiring the brown fan of hair mixed with the light blues, purples and reds of the wildflowers that acted as a halo.

“Yes, my Queen,” he replied, appreciating the irony with a laugh. “You should avoid a reputation,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to her flushed cheek before pulling his face back a few inches, “lest Richelieu or your husband,” he nudging her nose with his as he passed over it to kiss her other cheek, before pulling away again, “begin to suspect-“

“Suspect?” she laughed, taking his face between her two hands and caressing his own cheeks lightly with her thumbs. “My heart, if, after ten years of disgruntled marriage, my husband hasn’t suspected any affection I have lies elsewhere then France is in more trouble than one could ever _suspect_.” She pulled him closer for a deeper kiss and he knew that, any rational thought he could hold on to would soon be banished by her embrace.

He reluctantly, despite her protestations, pulled back, “your husband is not even half of the worry, Anne,” he spoke to her frankly and the tone of his voice was enough to stop the kisses she pressed against his neck with light laughter. “Richelieu, if the Cardinal even thinks you are cavorting with one of the Musketeers, there will be a whole world of trouble for the two of us.”

She looked at him appraisingly, “and the Musketeers; de Tréville, Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, they could all suffer for our infidelity, Aramis. Are you prepared to risk the employ and livelihood of your friends for, what,” she scoffed dismissively, “a roll in the grass with a pretty woman? Surely you can do better, you _know_ better, than that?”

“I do,” he conceded, disliking the turn the conversation had taken but aware of the importance anyway. “Yet I cannot find it in myself to care and it shames me,” she was about to protest but he carried on, “I know nothing can come of this, I know that I am risking more than my life is worth, but know this, my Queen: I love you. I love you as a monarch, of course, but I love your ferocity and your passion. The fact that your… your life is so wasted on your husband (a man that, though I call him King, I find feeble in his affections and rule) hurts me so, I cannot bring myself to _not_ love you in the ways that I should not. So, if you’ll have me (and I hope you will), I will continue to come to this glade with you, my heart, and I will love you in ways I promise your husband will never.”

Tears danced in the corners of her eyes as he finished his confession and he knew he’d placated any fears she’d continued to harbour. “I, I will go to Court, Aramis,” she told him. “But know that I go for you, I suffer the fools for your friends, for your love, for your life.”

He couldn’t help it, he beamed down at her. Somehow, and unsurprisingly, Anne was beyond all he’d ever imagined her to be (not that he had often allowed himself such treasonous fantasies before he was welcome in her embrace), “you promise more than I’d ever ask, Anne.”

Anne smiled, it was a small smile that she rarely offered him in private but it said so much: it was indulgent of his love for her, understanding of his ways – a smile that said quite clearly that she understood every minute detail and it pleased her. It was a Queen’s smile.

The conversation had turned more serious than either had predicted and, in the now setting sun, aware of the late hour and the hastening need to return to the chateau lest they be missed, they embraced once more. It was passionate as ever but more caring than either had experienced before, certainly more tender and loving than Anne had ever known. Later that night, as she ritually fucked the frigid husband who cared so little, she would remember every touch of Aramis with her Queen’s smile and feel so warm and loved despite the oppressive thrusts of her husband above her. 

**Author's Note:**

> A.N. Good god this is the fluffiest thing I’ve ever written. Daliances has become a series of oneshots – although I’m certainly considering a multichapter eventually. The feedback I’ve had for Daliances has been lovely and the reviews so kind!   
> I’ve not actually managed to see episode three yet, as much as it pains me, no internet or tv signal but I’m working on it.   
> I feel like I need to mention that my French history is painfully lacking, the English curriculum is seriously lacking and, to be fair, I’m 23 now and would have forgotten it all anyway. I’m certainly not going to even venture into a multichapter without a better contextual knowledge of the period.


End file.
